Silent Hill: The Manipulated Dead
by Elliot Bowers
Chapter 10—Dream a Little Nightmare
The twin girls in jeans and sleeveless tops, high-school backpacks over their shoulders, walked the rest of the way back home—slow winds blowing along the suburban streets, trees at the sides of the roads. And they felt odd all the while, walking through this clean-cut, luxurious suburban neighborhood of manicured front lawns, three-story houses and pricey town-cars. Huge trees made for shade on even this moderately warm day. It was warm, not at all as hot as it was in the city. This was not their neighborhood, not their home. Yet they still knew their way through this strange neighborhood for the same reason that they ended up in this reality in the first place.
They stepped along the flagstone-paved path that went around to the right-side of the house. Call this a house? This is more like a mini-mansion, thought Cheryl. Because of the size of the house, it really was quite a ways around to the far side of this suburban residence.
Yeah, houses like this, they're called something like that. What'd some guy call 'em? McMansions or something, thought Heather as she unshouldered her book-bag and fumbled around for the house-key… Ah, here we go, she communicated to Cheryl. Huh… I'm still getting used to having memories that don't belong to me. We've got house-keys. It probably means that neither of the parents are home.
Yeah, you'd think a ritzy neighborhood like this would have the Mom stay home and stuff to raise the kids, mentally responded Cheryl. Oh… That's right. In this reality, we had a nanny up until we were about sixteen. Don't ask me how I know.
I won't, if you don't, communicated Heather. Thumb and forefinger grasping the familiar flat key, there was the familiar feeling of the metal sliding into the doorknob's locking mechanism. She did the same for the dead-bolt locks—sliding the key into the house-lock mechanism and giving a turn. They were then able to give a turn to the doorknob and open it up, the door itself heavy as metal but with wood paneling. Voila!
…
Stepping inside brought them to the big kitchen. "We're ho-o-ome!" they sang out in chorus. No one responded. Of course no one would respond: The only residents of this huge house were the twin-girls and the parent-figures. The house-cleaning staff came in three times a week, but they were not here today, not supposed to be. While the mother-figure usually attended social events and the father-figure was often away on business, it was usually just Cheryl and Heather—who only now got home.
But still, they expected an answer. There was the vague feeling of somebody being here—that unspoken and barely detectible idea. It was that sort of feeling a person got from walking into a room where there was someone hidden out-of-sight behind a door or in the next room. Yet there was no response. Maybe they were just being paranoid...
Well, never mind that, then. The girls made their way over to the counter-top at the right side of the kitchen. Such a long counter-top was nominally for a team of servants that assisted the chef—whenever a chef was hired for a celebration of some sort. But it was also here for when Mom and Dad wanted to tope it up a little with a little something from the wine cellar.
You know what…? After we do this freaky homework, I say we get bent. This reality isgetting to me, mentally declared Cheryl as they both sat down atop the cushions. This alternate history stuff is, like, really far-out stuff. If we don't get some kind of relaxation and fun soon, I think we're gonna end up more nuts than we already are.
I hear that, my dear twin from an alternate reality, agreed Heather. About this alternate history, it's pretty hard to get over the fact that Canada nuked part of the US Midwest in this reality. It's a wonder it didn't lead to the end of the world… That is, unless the end of the world happened and this is all some kind of elaborate joke run by demons, space-aliens or something like that.
Now you're starting to think of that philosophy class, added Cheryl. Speaking of philosophy, that's the only other subject we've got homework for—a nothing-little assignment of ten pages. Huh, and I thought this high-school business would be harder. We read more than that for kicks.
Well, so long as those kicks are about the occult and other stuff like that, communicated Heather. There was a r-r-r-ringing of the telephone. "Whoa!" she exclaimed, the other girl also giving a jump of surprise. The damned thing nearly scared me off my stool. And we don't scare easily. The telephone rang yet again—a telephone mounted on the kitchen wall right of this counter. Funny thing, there were two other telephones on the same line elsewhere in the kitchen. None of them rang…
I'll get it, communicated Cheryl before bouncing off the stool, feet to the floor before stepping over to the telephone itself. "Ach-hem," she went to clear her throat, making sure that her voice still worked before picking up the handset. Telepathy was cool, but it made a person feel a little lazy about using the vocal chords and mouth to talk. "Hello?" she asked.
First there was a hissing of static. It sounded like a poorly tuned radio, the sounds full of tortured electronic squeals and bits of miscellaneous voices in the distance. And was that sound of fire? There was that low rumbling roar and the sound of hot air fluttering and blowing. Yes, that was definitely the sound of fire. It somehow brought to mind machines on fire—the flames flowing around and upwards on the metal casing. Strange machines were on fire somewhere…
"Imposters! You interlopers!" rasped the old man's voice, shouting over the sounds of the flames. "We-e-e don't need you! Things were going just…fine before you appeared! Who the Hell needs the truth? You horny little sinful slut!"
A look of disgust on her face, Cheryl pulled the telephone away from her right ear. Heather sensed the annoyance and distaste in Cheryl's mind and also heard the loud words from the telephone receiver. It was that quiet in this kitchen—especially since the refrigerator's cooling unit was off. Heather then walked over to here and accepted the telephone receiver.
"It doesn't matter to which one I talk!" yelled the voice. There was a wail of electronic static and madness. "You're both the same! You are whoresome! Those people you call parents certainly need to have psychiatrists look into your brains. Yeah, and the shrink ought to use a hand-saw and ice-pick to do that! He ought to open up your slutty head and scoop out all the bad!"
"Who the Hell is this!" demanded Heather. "Anyway, our sex life is nobody else's business! How about your sex life, huh? Maybe this how you get your jollies, you perv! You like calling girls to call 'em all kinds of nasty names. There are ways of tracing calls, you know."
"Shut up, you lying trollop!" countered the angry old man's voice. Another wash of electronic interference temporarily drowned out the call. "I hope you see the accursed truth of all this soon enough. And when you do, I hope to be the ones to cut you bodies open and reach inside your whoresome selves to… Hey! What are you doing! You can't hang up on me-e-e! You little…" Click!
Cheryl had pressed the button on the telephone console. Heather gave her the phone to put back on the hook. Both girls wiped their hands on the thighs of their jeans, both their faces with looks of distaste. Ew! That has to be one of the grossest phone calls we've ever gotten, thought Heather. Makes me wanna take a long hot shower just to get away from the filth.
Heather shuddered. Thought, Which is worse, horny phone calls from a pervert or being groped by a stranger that doesn't say anything? At least in our time, we have caller I.D. Ask for that sort of technology in this time period, and people won't know what we're talking about—as helpful as it'd be. She went over to the kitchen's refrigerator and opened up. There's got be some kind of soft drink in here to get the nasty taste of that freak out of our mouths… The girl pulled the door open and stood there with the door open. One good thing about not being too tall was that there was no need to bend over as much. Wow, this really must be an alternate reality. Get a gander at these freaky soda brands!
Ew, What kind of name is "Snozz" for a brand of soda? Sounds like snot mixed with motor-oil or something, came Cheryl's thought. She could read the soda brands through Heather's mind, Heather's eyes on the fridge. That stuff labeled "Tab" looks interesting. Sure beats "Splash" brand, which sounds more like carbonated salt-water. We oughtta try it.
Sure thing, responded Heather. She reached deep into the refrigerator for four cans of the stuff. These in hand, Heather went back to her seat next to the other girl and pulled open a can before opening the books of the homework. The soda can made a crisp snaring sound as she popped the pull-tab on the thing—but without the fizz. Huh, this stuff seems a little flat.
Thanks, thought Cheryl in reaching for one of her own cans and pulling it open. Hey, mine's a little flat, too. Anyway… Her lips puckered and her throat flexed as she drank the liquid. The girl was thinking, Here's an idea. You read the philosophy homework. I'll read the history homework. That way, we'll know both subjects at the same time and just communicate to each other the info when the teacher asks.
Cool idea, responded Heather. Her eyes went to the philosophy textbook. What the Hell was the chapter they supposed to read again…? She checked her notebook. Yes, it was that section on epistemology—that stuff about how human brains really don't know what reality is. Something about this chapter was a little freaky. It also made things interesting. As Heather read, she could sense Cheryl reading words into her own mind as one would hear whispers in the distance or something.
This chapter on epistemology was more about possible theories of reality. According to some ancient guy named Descartes, there's really no way of telling if reality is reality. It could all be a cosmic joke being played by a demon. The demon would put up a grand illusion for the human mind to wander around in: fooling the eyes, fooling the ears, even tricking taste, touch and smell. That would be a really kick-ass kind of virtual reality…even if demons ran the show. Kick-ass… "Hmm-hmm…" giggled Heather.
"Hmm… Ha-ha!" went Cheryl in turn. The girl then slapped her right hand over her own mouth. Oops…! Still, this is good stuff for just soda. The chapter, the soda… Hell, it's all good. There was a pause in which she had herself another drink from the can of soda. It's pretty good for flat soda.
Yeah, especially soda with a really far-out name, added Heather. If we find a way back to our own realities, we oughtta bring some of this with us. We could patent it and sell it to one of those crazy soda-bottling companies.
Sell it for a million-million bucks, agreed Cheryl. "Hmm-hmm… Hic!" Oops! She lifted the can and squinted at the label. I'm feeling a wee bit tipsy, in fact. Wait a sec… Is million-million even a real number? Why not?
Responded Heather, It will be! Just slap that number on our checks and give it over. Well, we're getting distracted from our homework-studies, aren't we? Cheryl nodded, the thought of her agreement echoing in mind. So they went back to reading.
In walked both of the parents. There was the tall guy in the suit, the father-figure. And standing next to him was the Alessa-lookalike, the mother figure. Both girls were so relaxed that they didn't notice. "Good afternoon, girls!" said the tall father-figure. "Well, it's nearly time to take you to the doctor. You're just about ready."
"What doctor?" asked the girls in unison. They were genuinely surprised at the mention of doctor. Yet the word psychiatrist echoed through their minds mind. Along with it came those extra memories that were not hers, but still coming to mind
"What the…? No, we can't go! We're not crazy!" insisted Cheryl. "There's nothing wrong with us. We get along just fine." Heather, something's not right. We can't go. In this world, there's something about us being crazy—borderline institutionalization.
The mother-figure stood here, her sleeveless dress leaving arms bare. The dress itself clung to her long and elegant figure, making her look very good for someone who had two kids nineteen years ago. A toss of her dark-haired head, the elegantly beautiful woman regarded them with a seemingly sympathetic face. Her wonderful and lightly sweet voice flowed from her throat and lips to make for words that were nearly hypnotizing…
"Oh, do come now, children. It is for the sake of your mental health. You have such strange notions carried about in mind. Think of it… What talk is it when one speaks of a Hellish 'Other World' full of strange creatures and distorted settings? Also, what of your wrong-headed religious ideals? Since when is reincarnation an acceptable religious doctrine?" Alessa closed her large dark eyes and gently shook her head, opened her eyes again. "No… You require medical attention."
Thought Heather. What kind of bigoted, narrow-minded crap is this? "Now listen. My sister and I believe in some things, so what?" said the girl on the left stool. "We're able to get up every morning to go to school and stuff. It's not like we're sacrificing priests with copper stakes to the chest or drawing weird circles with blood and… You know what I mean. No… You know what? It shouldn't matter what we believe in. We believe what we…believe…" A shake of her head, and she tried to speak more clearly. It was hard to sound angry and confident right now. Something's not right…
Oh damn. I know. It's that feeling of everything being a little off-key, communicated Cheryl, like we've taken a swig of whiskey on an empty stomach or something. She voiced the words and realized her mistake halfway through. "What about freedom of religions? That's the way things are supposed to be run in this country. It's a right…" Oh wow… Are you feeling this, too?
Yeah, just hold on, responded Heather. I'll help argue, but my throat is really dry right now. Maybe a swallow of soda will help? She reached back atop the counter for her soda—as flat as it was. Realization struck: Why would a supposedly unopened can of soda be flat? The soda was flat…thought we just opened the cans.
Cheryl sensed Heather's thought. It's as if somebody poked a hole in it with…a God-damned syringe and left the hole… She swallowed. Yes, her throat was feeling dry too. It was likely a side-effect of something, of a drug. Yeah, somebody slipped us a mickey! Right in our soda-pop! No wonder why we're having a hard time showing these parents up.
2.
An angry look on her face, dark blue eyes flaring, Heather clenched her hands into fists and tried to stand up. She really tried, making her best attempt at being strong… But her legs felt as if they were not a part of her, her body beginning to lose feeling. The numbness seemed to radiate out from her abdomen and was taking her strength. She was able to stand for just about three seconds. "What gives you the right…?" The rest of her words were lost in a sigh.
That was it. Just saying those words took almost the last of her strength. Both girls felt themselves falling to collapse, eyesight blotted over with those pain-filled blotches of darkness. Somehow, the girls fell themselves to their knees and kept her upper body upright by bracing hands and arms against the floor. Don't black out, she demanded to herself. Don't black out. Don't black out… Cheryl was feeling just about as disoriented. Where and how things were going, she didn't know, collapsing next to her, putting an arm across Heather's back. Come on, we've gotta stay conscious. Who knows what these two people'll do to us if we let that stuff knock us out? Maybe some kind of ritual. We've both had it with rituals…
And right now, it was getting harder to…stay conscious. The darkness closing…over their sight was already dark enough. The afternoon sunlight…shining through the windows was getting to darken. Everything was darkening. We've gotta fight it, insisted Cheryl. I don't know about you, but I'm not gonna let some kind of date-rape drug put me out. Can't let that bitch win!
Something faded into view, some kind of tall animal that didn't look quite right. "Blorp!" came a strange sort of belch sound from the walking creature. The girls tilted their heads upwards and forwards though their necks felt too weak to hold up their heads anymore, looking across a blurry ant tilted kitchen floor. It was a glimpse up gave an awful view of something that ought not even exist, resembling a walking bag of meat with too-long hairy arms and chest—a chest with a big belly large enough to swallow a kid whole. Two of its lumpy legs were used for walking while a third leg dragged limply and trailed some kind of slimy yellow ichor. Maybe that third limb was a tail. Or maybe it was a different kind of organ altogether.
We can't let that thing touch us, insisted Cheryl's frightened thought. And here it was, coming closer. The girls tried helping each other in getting away. All they could do was crawl. Their heads were just so full of…dizziness…and their throats were just so dry… It was getting hard to breathe and get enough air in their lungs. They felt as if they were dying. They collapsed sideways and tried pulling themselves across the floor even as the walking meat-creature closed in. And their…eyes closed. A snatch of song came to mind: It's just i-i-infinitely late at night… For them, things faded off into darkness.
"Good thing they're on the light and petite side, like little girls that'll never grow up," commented the father figure. He bent down to grab one of the girls by the ankles. "Their eyes are still open. Makes me think they're not fully unconscious." So grabbing, he dragged her limp body across the smooth kitchen floor—her arms trailing along—until coming to the kitchen entrance near the living room. Then he came back for the other girl lying on the kitchen floor and did the same, grabbing her legs by the ankles and dragged her across the kitchen floor as well. Soon both girls were side by side next to the rear kitchen door. For good measure, he reached down to stroke their eyelids shut.
Alyssa, the mother figure, opened the living-room door to reveal two wheelchairs. The wheelchairs rolled over to where the girls were lying on the floor. "Limp as dolls," he said. "Well, I can't complain…much. If they were as dead as everybody else, they'd probably get to be stiff and harder to handle."
"You do realize they can hear you…" said Alyssa. "They do possess a higher level of awareness. It is one that no bodily tranquilizer can sedate. As such, it would do to temper your tongue hereabouts… Do you yet comprehend?"
"Do I understand? You betcha," answered the tall father figure. "Alright, here we go with Cheryl…or Heather… Whichever is which." He began to wheel the first girl back through the kitchen and out the door. Alyssa summoned a female nurse—the nurse grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and pushing this other wheelchair out to follow. Never mind the fact that this nurse had a strange lump growing out of the back.
…
They were vaguely aware of being slumped in the back seat of a van. Their own bodies still felt numb and distant, but at least they were conscious...maybe. Everything still had a weak and dark sort of feel to it. This vehicle they were in, it was some kind of special van that must have been designed just for transporting the unconscious. There was this vague feeling of straps across their thighs and abdomens, a third strap going across their shoulders and near their necks, the feeling of something soft beneath them. This wasn't an ambulance. Ambulances only had room for single stretchers—not two people side-by side. Side-by-side was exactly how the girls were strapped in
Are we there yet? That asshole closed our eyes, and I can't open mine, went Heather's thoughts. How about you? Any luck where he's really taking us? They said doctor, but what kind of doctor? What if the doctor isn't even human?
Wouldn't be surprised if any of that was true, responded Cheryl's thought. Where the Hell are we going, really? We've been riding for a while. Well, it's hard to tell if it's been a while—being drugged and all. Funny thing. We can't move our bodies, but our minds are still fine as anything. Or at least I think so.
Heather thought, Yeah, can't move, can't open our eyes… It's like being trapped inside our own bodies. We're just running around inside our own brains. Now I know how paralyzed people feel. We could try to scream and stuff, but nobody would hear us but us… Hold on a sec.
Huh… As if I've got a choice, quipped the other girl. Wait… Was that "Hold on" comment a joke? Can't hold on if I can't move my arms. Jeez, this whole unconscious-body thing is getting annoying.
Annoyed as she was, annoyed as both girls were, they nevertheless stopped communicating. This van was slowing down. A slowed left turn, and they felt their bodies shifting. The vehicle maneuvered into a parking lot or something. Engine off, there was the sound of the back doors opening. "Here we are, girls! It's time to keep you both feeling normal!" cheered the father-figure.
They could hear the straps being undone before they felt a slight alleviation of restriction on their bodies. Hands grabbed them—the quivering but unusually strong hands of nurses. Then came the wheelchairs again. At least these nurses didn't sound as if they were breathing through mutant mouths: these nurses seeming normal—though both girls knew that they were not. There were no normal people here.
There was a feeling of being pushed along this parking lot. The wheels vibrated and thrummed in rolling along the pavement. Then they were pushed up a slight ramp and indoors, the wheels of the wheelchairs went smoothly along carpeted floors. They were now in the carpeted offices of the psychiatrist—those traces of ghost-memory indicating that they would be wheeled straight in.
…
They could feel the drug beginning to wear off, able to feel their bodies again. Eyes open, Cheryl and Heather looked up at the beige and dimly lit ceiling of the psychiatrist's therapy room. They were both on couches, lying on their backs and looking up. About time, thought Cheryl.
Heather spoke to the psychiatrist. "You know, Doc… We ought to make you dead for letting our so-called 'parents' do that to our bodies. Drugs and stuff. It's like being chemically raped. No… You know, we ought to kill you. Then we'll sue you for lots of money until your whole family goes broke!"
"You've got a lot of money, too," came Cheryl's voice. "It would be a real shame to lose it all. Let's see… It's a man in an office with two drugged-up nineteen-year-old girls. Wat would a jury think?"
"Please stop that. You are being impolite," came the unctuous but familiar voice of a certain blond-haired man, well-dressed in the jacket-and-tie outfit of someone in wealth—beige pressed pants creased and neat. He was seated behind the polished oak desk, and what a seat it was: a cushioned affair more worthy of a business executive than a man of medicine. "It was not my decision to have you sedated. Besides, that so-called jury you speak of would not be a concern. The laws of this world make wide allowances for the treatment of the mentally ill…given the circumstances. Oh, the laws of this world… If only you knew." As soon as he said that, something invisible gave a laugh.
"We'll show you some laws!" said the girls simultaneously. They've had enough. All of this being strapped down and drugged up, it was too much. They hopped up off of the couch and began to stride for the psychiatrist—who looked especially familiar: a formally dressed blond-haired man, thirtyish-looking and with small glasses. They met in that other town. But there was something different about this man.
He had a book atop the desk. Standing behind him was the figure in the rabbit suit. Suddenly, the girls felt especially dizzy. "Ah, but these are the laws of this world," declared the familiar-looking man. He watched as Heather and Cheryl collapsed to the floor. Everything blurred as the lights…flickered… That invisible being gave another laugh.